


Amazing

by sfiddy



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Coulson likes red corvettes, F/M, Mission Recovery, Skoulson - Freeform, after S2 battle, insomnia and nightmares, pre-Daisy name change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 07:03:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5038516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfiddy/pseuds/sfiddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Half healed and barely coping with the fallout of the fight on the aircraft carrier, Phil Coulson goes for a stroll to clear his head and finds Skye, trying to do the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amazing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brullaffe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brullaffe/gifts).



> Phil Coulson sort of confuses his two red corvettes. I'm totally okay with that. 
> 
> A gift for brullaffe, who needs to post her fic. This wasn't what I planned to write, but it's what happened!

He’s more asleep then not, enough gone that his mind has slipped his carefully constructed shackles and gone off-protocol, leaving him a helpless observer to his own subconscious. He can feel it, that tightness in his chest. That’s how it starts.

It’s not pain so much as a sense of wrong. It was the catch in his breath and the sudden paralysis creeping through him that told him it was bad. It wasn’t until the blade was pulled away, tearing his heart and dragging pieces of his sternum past his shredded skin, that it occurred to him just how bad. All the strength went out of him. Every joint was loose, every bone a snapped band, and nothing but gurgling pain through the very center of him, radiating shock out to his fingertips. And that was the part that either woke him up, jerking and panting, or left him thrashing as the dream went on. 

Tonight, Phil Coulson woke up, rubbing gingerly at the scar that ridged his chest, trying to erase the sense of invasion. He rubbed his face and rode the last waves of phantom panic until they ebbed. He learned long ago that fighting or avoiding it just meant the terror would mutate and return as something even uglier. He went three days without decent sleep after a bad mission once before he figured that out. May's advice had been instrumental back then. 

After Bahrain he’d had to remind her of her own counsel, but in retrospect it was clear a little lost sleep was not her only problem.

Years later, the same was true for him. 

The universe just wasn’t done with him. Never done. He was Phil Coulson, agent of SHIELD and intergalactic whipping boy. Killing him was just the beginning, and when that didn’t work, what remained was being slowly disassembled. One piece at a time.

He swung his legs off the bed and hauled himself up. Stiff, sore, his lip half healed and side still bruised in a spectacular set of mottled colors. They had actually shown through a white t shirt so he switched to black. Not that anyone else was noticing, but he’d rather not see the damage. 

Correction—he already had to see the stump, the swollen face, and the split lip. An impressionist painting on his side in various shades of designer blood clot was really over the top. Coulson wasn’t really a fan of the French avant garde.

Phil rubbed his fingers together. They were still tingly and prickled as he opened a drawer, sighing, knowing that feeling could last for a whole day if he didn’t relax soon. He fished a pair of socks out and slipped into some soft black pants and shoes. He needed a walk, even if it was just around a few halls. No doubt the lab crew would have coffee, but that wasn’t a good idea. Don’t feed an addled brain wake-up juice when it needs sleep. 

Would the universe wait until he was healed, or would it just take an opportunistic bite out of him as soon as possible? He really was sort of unique-- dead by a Chitauri scepter held by an Asgardian demi god, brought back to life by a dead Kree, nearly turned to ash by an Inhuman, and saved by the swipe of an axe.

He really liked that ax now. It’s on his wall, sentimental idiot that he is. Mack was so handy with it he might consider adding it to weapons training. Or he could sit around miserable at three in the morning ignoring his own bad puns.

Maybe there would be a measure of symmetry to it all. They could take his left leg next, leaving him a cyborg on one side, like Mike. Mike had adapted beautifully, but it just wasn't right. It would be more miserable for him, being older and quite possibly more used to his body’s foibles. Garrett may have been in love with the idea of being enhanced, but that was a road Phil had no intention of following.

Especially Garrett’s last part. Hell of a gun. 

And Jesus, if he thought the therapy after losing his lower arm was bad, imagine losing a leg? That was rich. As if his team hadn’t seen enough of his physique already. Now he was regularly overcompensating by wearing oversized jackets. Losing a leg would mean spending months in a jock with FitzSimmons, being fitted and trained with a new prosthetic. How would he overcompensate for that?

Petticoats. Big fluffy petticoats.

Cold water on his face was the next step in banishing the night. He’d been up for about five minutes, so his breathing was slowing and the tension was easing. The tearing feeling was gone from his chest and left behind the strange numb-but-not-numb feelings in his scar, and the edges were hypersensitive again. It felt like a stupid scar again, inconsistent and poorly fitted. Like everything else—hollow and raw. 

Coulson worked his way toward the kitchen. Dealing with that hollow feeling was next on the list. Food was therapeutic and eased the ragged cavern his dreams left.

Before he tried to sleep, he’d eat. That was the next step most times, but tonight he just felt sick. His insides were churning more than usual. Well, things had been a bit more intense than usual, so there was that. Maybe a wander through the halls would do him good. He didn’t do that without reason these days, everyone needed a minute of his time, a look at something, or a status update, but at three in the morning so soon after a beating… Phil was pretty sure he’d get a little ‘me time’ in the halls.

The infirmary was dim, lights low out of respect for those that actually needed rest. Bobbi was nearing release but the knee needed constant movement, so she was strapped into a machine that did it for her during the night. Now that the cash flow wasn’t devoted to covertly rebuilding a helicarrier, he could look into some special light filtering glass when the budget loosened back up.

And that headache was still to hit. He forgot how spoiled he was, flying in his personal high tech yacht or in quinnjets surrounded by advanced everything, even if he was usually strapped to a cargo net. Even cargo netting was better than a middle seat in coach with his mind wrapped around multitudes of shell accounts and liquid assets. Phil Coulson was not a money guy. He was a better ‘keep the system running at all costs’ guy. 

Speaking of which, the hallway that played host to the servers was not frigid, which meant the servers would be warm. There was a reason why Fitz wore sweaters constantly. Mental note, ask Mack to increase capacity on the HVAC system and make sure it was as arctic as the tech people liked it. He could drop some texture on the floor if condensation became a problem.

As he padded through the halls, his stomach settled a bit. Not enough to eat, but enough that he could handle sitting down, and he knew exactly the seat he wanted. Phil adjusted his sling with a grunt and turned to go to the mechanics bay. 

It was dark, thankfully. Just enough light from the window to find the right shape— a winking, curving line in the darkness. He liked this moment, getting to turn on the light in the shop. There was something about the way that first sparkle of light off the chrome hit your eye when you’re adjusted to the dark. It hurt for a second, but he liked it. He liked that she always got his attention.

A flip of the switch brought Lola to life. Gleaming, candy apple red and unbearably beautiful, she was just perfect. He walked around her, grazing his fingertips over her curved hood, confirming that she was as flawless as the last time he’d checked.

With a quiet grin, Phil went to reach for the driver’s side handle only to stop suddenly. He would have opened the door with his left hand. Unfortunately, his left hand was under glass and on display in the lab.

Christ, he was the sickest collector of all time. Fury better still have his cards.

Phil opened the driver’s door awkwardly with his right hand, twisting to maneuver it open since the angle was strange this way, and gingerly eased himself into the seat. For a split second, he started to reach to close the door before the stopping himself again. Muscle memory was going to be hard to overcome. Plus, it hurt to lift his arm.

He couldn’t live like this. He was pushing up the schedule on the prosthetic. He had needs. 

With a sigh, he pushed his way out and closed Lola back up, promising her a nice evening out soon. He wished her a good night before turning off the lights, dimming her gleam once more.

Phil clenched his jaw. That was enough. Once he closed the mechanics bay he allowed himself one more moment of pity, then braced the stump against his chest and headed in the direction of the kitchens. Rolling stomach or not, he needed something nutritious now. He had a lot of work to do if he wanted to wear a prosthetic and the faster he healed, the faster he could function again.

The kitchens were dark and Phil left the lights off, not wanting to blast the entire sector with the harsh LEDs. A few beers rattled in the door as he opened the refrigerator, searching for anything that he could stomach.

“Don’t touch the beer.”

Phil jumped, recovering quickly but not before sharp twinges seared up his bruised side and down his arm, skipping out to phantom fingers. 

“What?” he gritted out, reaching for a small overhead lamp. When he switched it on, tired, dark eyes sparkled in the corner where a break table sat.

“Hunter might be back. He’s had four so far.”

Phil Coulson blinked. She looked so tired, probably as bad as him. Maybe worse. Only a jerk would ask the obvious, so he skipped it. “Can I get you something? I could get Simmons-“

Skye waved a hand. “No, I’m okay. Just,” she pushed her hair around and rubbed her face. “I’m not sure if I can’t sleep or I don’t want to.”

“Yeah,” Phil agreed. “Same kind of night here.” He left the little light on and went to stand by the booth where Skye had tucked herself. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Lightly, she touched the raw skin on her cheeks, cracked and fragile. He wished he could polish that away, or at least the way it happened. “Not really. You?”

Phil touched his chest. Fingers still tingled, and the scar sent uncomfortable ripples of sensation up towards his shoulders. “No. But we should eat something.”

Skye made a sound of disgust. “Everything is gross.”

Phil chuckled. “Anything is better than the supplements Simmons will make us take if we don’t eat tonight. And if we skip eating for more than two days, Garner will flag us as unstable.”

Skye inhaled sharply. He knew that would get her. It helped that it was true. 

“I’ll make you a deal. We get something down together, try to sleep, and we both stay cleared for duty. Good?” Skye gave a weak half smile and nodded, so Phil went back to the fridge and opened it up. 

He pushed around containers and packaged meals and felt grim about the options. Everything was pretty pungent, like vindaloo and pesto and garlic butter. Not the best choices when you’re struggling with a fragile stomach. And they were both still too bashed up to crunch through granola bars. He’d have to stock the place with chicken noodle soup and pudding before the next mission.

“Pickings are slim. Any ideas?”

She looked to the side for a moment, thinking. Her eyes are more bloodshot than he realized. “Sweet milk.”

“What?”

Skye leaned forward on the table and rested her face on her forearms. “Warm milk with a little sugar and vanilla. Easy on the stomach and it tastes nice.”

Phil pulled a carton of milk from the fridge and set it on the counter. “Okay. I’ll get the mugs.” Skye was already halfway to the counter and reaching for a saucepan from the cabinet, thank god. He was going to have to learn how to ask for help until he was reliable with a prosthetic, but now was not the moment. 

Skye understood. She always understood, even when he was a half-step behind her.

As she poured milk into the pan, the lamp’s halo of light back-scattered over her hair, catching strays in the golden spotlight. A strange, weary angel. 

Skye spooned sugar into the milk and Phil chuckled. “Your sweet tooth never fails to amaze me.”

“Don’t start on me,” Skye warned with a squint as she plopped one more spoonful into the pan and started to stir. The words came out harsh but Phil knew better. He could see the smile. “You’re the one who said we needed calories.”

“Good thing we’ve got whole milk.”

The first wisps of steam curled from the pan. Skye reached up with one hand to dig around in the nearest cabinet, stirring with the other. Without thinking, Phil reached over and took her place stirring while she found a tiny bottle of vanilla, quite possibly as old as the base itself. She poured in enough to tint the milk and took the spoon to stir once more, so Phil leaned on the counter, watching. Without even trying, she has his attention. 

It did not escape him how smoothly they worked together, nor how he stayed in her space without a second thought. Judging by her careful concentration on the steaming milk, she’s noticed, too, and allows it to simply be.

Because they simply _are_.

The smell is nice, a warm sweet aroma that doesn’t rile Phil’s stomach. Skye smiles as she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, face over the pan.

“It’s ready.”

So are the mugs, and she only sloshes a little on the counter when she pours directly from the pan. With only the one lamp to light the kitchen, they carefully scoot their sore, half-healed limbs back into the booth and sit mere inches apart. 

Her profile is a delicate line of light in the dark.

“To long nights,” Skye half whispers, propping her mug up.

Phil thought for a moment, then raised his. “And good company.” He had to blow on the milk before he could try it. 

Once Skye took a sip, she sighed. Her shoulders had been tight and tense before, but were now decidedly droopy. “God, that’s good. What do you think, Director?”

“It’s three in the morning. I’m wearing slippers and a sling.”

“What do you think, Coulson?”

“I haven’t washed this shirt in two days.”

“What do you think, _Phil?_ ”

He knew he was smirking. Score. “Perfect. It’s like a melted milkshake. I’m adding this to the routine.”

Skye raised an eyebrow. “Routine?” She glanced at his stump. “Does this happen often?”

He ignored the unintended question. Had already been there tonight. “I have a system for post-op insomnia.”

Skye took a sip and hummed. “By insomnia, you mean…”

“Nightmares, yeah,” he said without hesitation. Might as well be honest, since she’s always a bit ahead of him there. If she stayed in SHIELD after the dust settled, she might as well know. He took another sip. “This really is good.”

They sat together in the dark corner, drinking their warm milk. When they were both about half done, Phil set his down and enjoyed the quiet glow. His fingers didn’t tingle as much.

Skye had fairly rapidly gone from tense and exhausted to soft and drowsy, her angles smoothing out and her eyes wide and dark. She was listing to one side, just barely touching his good shoulder with hers. “Feel better?”

“Yep.” She rubbed at her eyes. “Might even be able to sleep soon.”

“Good.” As Phil raised his mug again, a gentle press on his arm slowed him. Skye was leaning on him.

One thump in his chest. One brief spasm as realization went through him, then quieted because he was too tired to even entertain it. “Hey,” he nudged. “I visited Lola.”

“Yeah? How’s she look?”

So tired, and now full of warm milk and sentiment. “Beautiful. Amazing. Like magic.” Forgot the HVAC system. Forgot the nightmares and bruises. His side was warm and he didn’t feel so raw anymore. “Like you.”

Mumble. “Me?”

Phil leaned his head back. Thank god the booth had a shelf behind it, his neck was so loose now. “Yeah. She’s incredible to drive, you know.” He was babbling, but it was okay with Skye. She understood. “Incredible, perfect condition. Shiny. Fast. Everyone thinks she’s amazing, but only a few people know how special she really is. I mean, she can _fly_.”

Skye was slipping further. She’ll be laying down soon. “I can’t fly.”

He shrugged. All angels can fly. “She needs to soon. I can’t do it.” He moved his left arm in the sling a bit for emphasis and Skye looked up. Dark gleams in the half light. He’d seen that somewhere. “Can barely open the door.” Christ he sounded sad.

She blinked. Sparkles from darkness. “Okay, but when we wake up, Phil.” Skye laid her head back down next to his thigh. “When we wake up, you can show me how amazing I am.”

Phil’s head was so heavy, and he gave up trying to keep his arm on the table. Skye’s side was a good place to rest his right hand and just let the sweet heaviness in his legs creep to his head. 

“Yeah, amazing.”

When she took his hand and tucked it between hers, he squeezed with whatever strength he had left and let everything else fade.

Amazing.

.

**Author's Note:**

> The ended up being more Coulson-centric than I planned, but I'm playing with new characters and trying them out.


End file.
